Self-indulgence

‘Yet the clock is time, and time is lost, is bankrupt before it begins’—from Owls do Cry, Janet Frame.

Recently I made two early blog posts private.

Many times I have gone to do this but never have. When I taught blogging I would tell my students that the blog itself formed an overall narrative. Mine certainly does. From 22-year-old bookseller living in Coffs Harbour to Dr Meyer the published author, a Melburnian and a frequent traveller, now 30.

Baby blogger, 2008, in Tiergarten, Berlin.

There was something about those early posts (the naivete, the openness, the enthusiasm perhaps all part of it) that made people champion me. I’m amazed when I look at the comments (on such cringe-worthy posts). It seems I even taught Emilie Zoey Baker what a meme was. The writing really was shocking, though. More so, I have changed and I can’t help feeling embarrassed at some of the earlier ‘personal’ posts, and well, poems. And so I might prune a little, here and there, from now on. I feel guilty about it. As though it’s dishonest.

But the narrative has spread out, to my published reviews, articles and stories, and the books I’ve now edited and written. Not to mention on social media, where ‘personal’ and even experimental expression continues. I’ll keep reflecting on the broader narrative (and journey) here. LiteraryMinded will always, in some shape or form, be my home on the internet.

Older, wiser (?), more filtered.

I just turned 30, while at the Ubud Writers & Readers Festival in Bali. A satisfying, literary-minded way to spend my birthday. I was on a panel about short stories on the day, with Nic Low and Dias Novita Wuri, chaired by Lisa Dempster. The audience was so engaged, and afterwards I was chatting with some teenagers who said they’d been reading stories from Captives aloud to one another. It’s always cool when someone tells you they’ve been reading your work, but I hadn’t previously realised these (often dark) stories would resonate with teenagers. It was great to meet them, and a special shout out to Julia. This is for you:

G and I spent the afternoon of my birthday at Bali Bird Park, absorbing sounds and colours; feeling the weight of parrots and hornbills on our arms, shoulders, and heads, and holding iguanas.

There are some photos and other commentary from the festival on my Facebook page, and on Instagram. I most enjoyed Michael Cathcart’s interview with Can Xue, the avant-garde Chinese writer:

‘You experiment to know how big your spiritual tension can be and how high you can scale the heights of art.’

This shift, though, from being firm about never deleting old blog posts to deciding it’s OK, reflects a wider shift that’s been happening in my life. I’ve noticed it since I got back from overseas, and since Captives was published. Questions have been raised (mostly internally) that relate to values I’ve always held, and I’ll find that something I always firmly believed (so much so that it had shaped who I was) has entered some slipstream, and then I watch it float away. How strange, I’ve found myself thinking. How strange to find that you have changed so much. To know you could change so fundamentally.

What’s still present in me, from the early blog days? The enthusiasm, definitely. The mad crushes on books and people. The dark bits. The wanting to go deeper. The desire to write fiction. The commitment, though the focus has shifted to different projects. The need for balance. Unfortunately, the self-consciousness. But it’s gotten much better. I set my mind to doing things and I do them. I am capable. I am most definitely grown up.

I will miss my 20s. The last five years in particular have been incredible, despite a few rough patches. One thing I’ll miss is the fact that people are forgiving of you when you’re young. And your achievements seem larger. People are proud; they nurture you. But my writing is in a good place (I’ve made it into Best Australian Stories for the first time, out November), and I’ve had a few work experiences since my doctorate that have made me realise what I do and don’t want to do. And I want to have kids and other life stuff like that. The 30s will be different, but I’m certain they’ll still involve writing, reading, love, travel, and whisky. And that’s enough.

I was honoured to be a guest on Jennifer Byrne Presents, an offshoot of the First Tuesday Book Club, to discuss one of the seven deadly sins, envy, along with Greg Sheridan, Lyndon Terracini and Kate McClymont. The show aired on 19 August on ABC, and will be available for a limited time on iview. There’s also an outtake up on YouTube, where I discuss Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

What was it like? It was a surreal and wonderful experience. I always suffer from nerves, a terror that I will say something incredibly stupid or not be able to say anything at all. I worry that I will freeze, say ‘uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh’ until everyone wonders why the hell I was invited to be on the show, let alone do anything in public, ever. The nerves are physical. You can’t tell on screen but my knees were juddering the whole time.

My reading around the subject was crammed; the shoot happened during the busiest period of my life so far. But I did find I had plenty of opinions on the topic of envy, and books from which I could draw. Study comes naturally to me. I love to read deeply, probe books through to their guts and bones (meaning, themes, context, structure). I probably don’t have to mention that—it’s why I do so much of what I do!

As soon as I knew about the appearance I saved to buy a dress just for it. Funnily enough, the green was an accident. Which is quite embarrassing to admit. The dress was chosen for me by Tracey at Frocks & Slacks in St Kilda, who is incredible and knows your size and what will suit you just by looking at you. I didn’t realise I was dressing to theme until Jennifer called me out on it (she was going for subtle green). It might sound like a superficial detail, but dressing up, wearing make-up (thanks ABC make-up department), doing my nails—these are part of preparing for the stage or a camera. Not armour; more coaxing out the confident part of myself, trying to sneak her past the quivering, doubting part. Because of course I want to do this, am capable of doing it, and may even be good at it.

It was all a bit of a blur, because of the adrenaline. Walking onto the set was exactly how you’d imagine it would be: bright lights, lots of cameras pointed in your direction. There was a small studio audience, which I found very helpful. I’m more used to speaking to an audience.

I didn’t remember much of what I’d said, afterwards, so I felt relief when I watched the show the other day and realised I did just fine. Jennifer also said some kind words to me afterwards. It’s not that I ever fear I don’t have the knowledge (because I always prepare); it’s more a worry of being unable to articulate what I know. I imagine being caught in this absurd, Beckettian loop of miscommunication. ‘My words fly up, my thoughts remain below.’ I also have a shocking memory, which fails me more when I panic.

When I left the ABC studios, I was on a high. It did feel like a step in a new direction, and that’s been confirmed by the amount of people in my Facebook feed who never normally talk to me but suddenly think I’m famous. (Publishing a book wasn’t enough for ya, ay?) But I’m also aware it’ll fade, as anything does. I’ll just enjoy this glow for a little longer, while getting on with my work. Dentist bills are certainly keeping me down here on earth.

One other thing: out of the other guests I most enjoyed meeting Lyndon Terracini, the director of Opera Australia. We clicked over Kafka, and I found him a very warm person. That’s something I’m grateful for, with all the travel and gigs I get to do: meeting interesting people. Jennifer Byrne, as you can probably tell from her screen presence, is also incredibly warm, smart, and funny.

Thanks to all of you who watched, and those who have come by the blog afterwards. Subscribe to my YouTube channel if you want to see more of me talking to camera about books!

I missed my blog’s birthday. For the first time. You can imagine why. Something else I’ve written has just been released, my tiny book of short fictions, Captives.

Actually, there’s more to it than that. I haven’t felt like I’ve had a proper chance to let publication wash over me, that now when I say to someone ‘I’m a writer’, and they ask, ‘what’s your book?’ I have an answer.

It’s just that I’m back in extraordinarily-busy-saying-yes mode… That’s why I truly missed my blog’s birthday. I’m working on two contracts (one editing, one writing), have started an awesome new casual job at Nant whisky bar, have two reviews, one essay and one academic paper due, am judging two writing competitions, preparing to report on a conference, preparing an interview, preparing for a HUGE amount of festivals, events and workshops, and trying to keep on top of social media etc. around my book’s release (and continuing to promote The Great Unknown). I’m a little stressed, admittedly, but I’m also grateful. When I got back from overseas it was so difficult, at first, to find work. I’d much rather have too much work, than too little. And everything feels (almost) balanced: a little reading, some writing, a bunch of emails, some editing, and then whisky.

Except for one thing: not enough creative writing going on. I’m managing about once a week at the moment. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. Do many people manage to write a lot when they’re in the throes of promoting the current book? And how do other authors manage balance between book promotion (and career building) and making enough of a living? This is a question that’s been fascinating me, last year (when I finished my doctorate) and this year: what is the ideal job for a writer? Is my bar job ideal, because it’s casual and flexible, and still stimulating (I love the smells in the bar, and hearing people’s different stories about how they came to like single malts—it often involves travel). Or is freelance editing ideal? I just love putting that logical part of my brain to work: problem solving; knitting text, spaces and punctuation into something neat. I get to put the control freak to work, purge her a little. Editing feels powerful, I think. But it does use up a lot of brain power, not exactly from the same area as the writing (at least the drafting) comes from, but close by. Enough to drain you of words for the evening. I don’t think I’d want to edit full time.

I don’t think I want to do any one job full time.

Can I manage this ‘juggling’, then? And still write, and still pay the bills? I’m going to try.

A grant would be helpful, of course! Or an advance. I am so enjoying writing this novel and it would be great, after some of these contracts ended, to have more time in the week to immerse myself in remote 19th century Scotland.

But hang on, let me take a moment here. I have a book out! (Always thinking of the next thing.) And it’s even receiving some lovely reviews and attention. The other day I received an email from an author whose book I very much admired, telling me she admired my book! It made my day. I couldn’t quite believe that she’d written to me as a peer (I know, but I’ve admitted to my inadequacy complex on here many times over these past seven years).

I’ve linked in the past few weeks to some of the guest posts/interviews I’ve been doing around the book’s release, but recently Captives has also been reviewed in Readings Monthlyby Brigid Mullane, and Bronte Coates interviewed me for the Readings blog. Author Annabel Smith also interviewed me (on the writing process) on her blog.

And The Great Unknown is kicking on! It received a review in the Australianlast weekend, by Kirsten Krauth, alongside the latest Sleepers Almanac. I still have to put up the last of my author posts from TGU on here. Will do soon…

And while I’m rambling on, I must say that I’m reading some incredible books for upcoming festivals: Fiona McFarlane’s The Night Guest is bowling me over, and Ceridwen Dovey’s Only the Animals is lingering long in my mind. I put a small note on that one on Goodreads.

But I also feel I’ll never catch up on all the books I want to read: Alex Miller’s Coal Creek, Chris Womersley’s Cairo, Alexis Wright’s The Swan Book (not to mention Carpentaria), Christos Tsiolkas’ Barracuda, Emily Bitto’s The Strays, Maxine Beneba Clarke’s Foreign Soil, Clare Wright’s The Forgotten Rebels of Eureka, and now Paddy O’Reilly’s new novel, The Wonders, has just landed on my desk. And I have an advance proof of Jessie Cole’s Deeper Water… (!)

All the books.

OK, I best get on with my work for the day. Thanks for coming by, it’s been swell.

I’m tucked away in the English countryside with my partner, sister, her girlfriend, a puppy called Beauly, and David Copperfield on my ereader. We have a chook and a ham, plenty of booze, and space all around us. The puppy is hard work! But when she looks at you with those big black eyes, you forgive all the nips and crying in the night.

It’s not long until our adventure is over! We’ve spent a good deal of time in England, Scotland, Norway and Spain. We’ve worked and volunteered. I finished two books (editing one and writing another) and the corrections for my doctorate. We’ve had snow and sun; we’ve walked up mountains and around lochs and fjords. We’ve dug holes, felled trees, looked after people’s children and dogs. We’ve eaten local foods and drank local booze. We’ve spent all our money.

But the timing was perfect. And travel is important to us. I think travel (especially the kind where you live with locals) can help build empathy in a similar way that reading can: seeing how other people have dealt with the days; the challenges they’ve faced and choices they’ve made. There are so many ways to live.

We’ve made a lot of friends by sharing work and meals on this trip. And I do like the idea of having a nice place where they are welcome to come and stay anytime, back in Oz. (How many times we’ve fantasised on this trip, though, too, about having an apartment in Spain, or a cottage in Scotland; the thing is that we’d still want to be in Aus as well, because we’re both close to our parents.) I realise how Gen Y this sounds, actually: we’ve grown up in a society where we have so many choices. But then G and I don’t have rich parents or anything either—we’ve always worked and made out own savings, paid for our own uni etc.—so it’s really only a matter of choosing one thing at a time. And travel has won out over saving for a deposit or whatever else. And I love that. While I think I’d like some more stability over the next few years, a ‘room of one’s own’, even, I don’t feel we’d be suited to an ‘A4 life’, to put it the way the Norwegians do.

I am looking forward to seeing people I’ve missed, and being reunited with my books.

But endings are always sad.

Who knows what’s next though? We almost have a clean slate. Different kinds of adventures await, literary and otherwise.

I hope your end of year celebrations are just the way you like them to be, and I hope you have a good book to read by the pool or the heater, depending on where you are! And, lovely readers, may your 2014 be full of warmth, adventure, inspiration, great insights and moments of beauty (like a puppy curled up on your feet while your partner prepares sweets and your sister is reading on the lounge).

And, in case you were wondering, my book of the year is Janet Frame’s In the Memorial Room. Glorious.

Yesterday I climbed the mountain Beinn Eighe, and it was breathtaking. I get a bit of vertigo; when there’s a drop by the path I have to lean away from it and not look down or else my legs crumble and my head spins. As I laid in bed last night, my muscles humming with tiredness and pleasure, sleep came upon me as a drop, my head spun and I kicked out.

We’re staying on a small island, accessed by a footbridge. It’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been to. Like, ridiculously stunning. Photographs can’t capture it. Today, G and I were digging out a campsite in the rocky earth of a smaller island that joins this one, and we paused to watch a pod of seals swim by. But I’ve also felt uneasy since we’ve been here, with all those annoying physical symptoms I experience—from hardcore heartburn to a twitching eye—and I’ve been trying to analyse why.

It’s because I’m feeling a little unmoored, and it’s a difficult feeling for me to embrace, though I’m aware that’s partly the point of (long term) travel. I feel very ‘in-between’ things, despite the fact that I do have projects on the go, being at the point of editing one, and spreading the word about another. I’ve also started researching a novel over here, but the idea is large and only slowly taking shape (the plot, the characters, what it’s ‘about’), and I’m incredibly impatient. I want to start writing it properly, but there’s a period coming up where we’ll be staying with relatives and I know I can’t be at the beginning stages of a novel then. I want to spend quality time with my relatives and thinking about the novel even more than I already am might impede that.

What we’re trying to make happen is a month after November where both G and I can just write. But we don’t really have the dough. We’re only able to travel for so long because we’ve been working, and working for board, and staying with very kind rellos, and we’ll have to continue in that vein. Of course, that has been amazing, and I am not underestimating the wealth of knowledge we’ve gained, not just the places and characters and gestures that writers can’t help collecting, but identifying birds, digging holes and making paths, ironing sheets (!), how to run a B&B, what to wear on long walks in the rain, what pleases a seven-year-old, how to make Banoffee, the best Speyside whiskies, the geology of a mountain, fables and histories, how to pronounce ‘Eilean’, and many other items.

I guess my problem is staying present, and trusting that I haven’t gone ‘off the path’. I was fine in Speyside, on our last Workaway assignment, probably because I had a firm routine. And this makes me laugh at myself. Because when I’m ‘stuck’ in a routine, at home, all I want to do is bust out of it. Writing this out is helping, though.

An added layer is that my 29th birthday has just passed. There was so much I thought I’d do before 30, and now that’s only a year away. I’ve been mentally readjusting my goals for a while now, taking in reality and everything that crops up, but… it’s pretty ingrained. Mostly ambition is pretty positive—the dreaming drives me—but the flip side (focusing on ‘failures’, disappointment, whatever) makes you see everything through a fog.

It’d be great to just feel ecstatic about everything I have going on right now: a long working holiday, two forthcoming books with my name on them, an incredible relationship… Yes. Let’s stop there.

I climbed a mountain yesterday. Sometimes I got dizzy. Occasionally I wandered off the path. Sometimes I struggled to see the next marker. But I always found my way back.